Carol stood aside for him to open it. She looked around with amazement, for the room was adorned, if that was the word, by strange creatures and gargoyles. A Murano glass lantern hung from the ceiling, its framework of black iron, and against one white wall there hung a large painting of a monk in medieval hood and habit. Carol stared, for the eyes that looked out of the dark stem face were the golden eyes of Rudolph Falcone.
'My ancestor who liked falcons,' he said. 'He wasn't part of a holy sect, but he liked to dress in that manner.
‘He was more unholy than anything else, so it is said.'
'The eyes,' she gasped, 'they seem alive !'
'Don't they?' He closed the heavy door and stood there looking at her, and to avoid his eyes she added to her impressions of the room by studying the tall king-wood cabinets that held an assortment of books, topped by falcons in carved wood, a menacing look to the way they peered downward, their beaks and claws cruelly distinct.
Over by a window there was a drawing-stand such as artists or architects might use, and Carol recalled what Gena had said about the baróne, that he designed the engines for motor-boats and racing-cars. Yes, she thought, he would want an occupation, for there was something alert and active in his every glance and movement. It wouldn't suit such a man to live the idle life of a wealthy aristocrat, and when he saw her looking at the drawing-board he said, sardonically:
'Yes, I too like to work for my bed and board, madam. It doesn't entirely suit me to live on the looted treasures of this house, though I certainly admit to finding pleasure in their beauty.'
As he spoke that final word his eyes dwelt on Carol's hair, the coloured upper panels of the gothic windows playing over its fairness and creating a sort of nimbus.
She tensed and wondered what was going through his mind. Did the look of her make him remember with painful - no, agonizing vividness that terrible moment when the acid had struck his face, flung at him by a woman mad with love or hate?
Love could be terrible ... terrible as hate if a woman could be driven to such an act.
'Won't you take a seat, madam?' He gestured to a deep chair that seemed to be covered in a thick dull material like monk's cloth. As Carol sat down she wondered if this man had taken to a sort of monk's life since having his face and heart burned by acid.
He didn't sit down himself but went to lean against one of the purplish-brown book cabinets, a carved falcon peering down at his black head, and so placed that he was out of range of the sunlight through the peaked windows 'Have you thought, madam, that while your son is a child he will have the protection of his family's love? Have you realized that when he goes away to school there will be those who will regard him as unentitled to his father's name?'
Her hands clenched the arms of her chair, for his words seemed to shaft into her like so many painful arrows. 'Yes,' she said quietly, 'I've thought about it now I - now I know that Vincenzo had a wife before he - he met me. I know that some people can be -spiteful, and Teri is such a knowing child that he will be susceptible to the barbed remarks. One of the reasons I wanted to get him away from my aunts was their attitude that he—' Carol bit her lip. 'They are old-fashioned in their outlook on life, and they thought that Teri should not have been born.'
'And why should they take such an attitude v/hen you believed yourself to be the legal wife of my brother?'
Carol gazed across at him and saw from his frown that she was skating on thin and dangerous ice. 'He was dead, signore, and it's always hard for a child to be brought up by a single parent.'
'Indeed, and that brings me to the point of this discussion. A growing boy should have a father, and most certainly a name. I have decided that you will become my wife, madam.'
'What?' Carol stared at him as if he had suggested
'My ancestor who liked falcons,' he said. 'He wasn't part of a holy sect, but he liked to dress in that manner.
‘He was more unholy than anything else, so it is said.'
'The eyes,' she gasped, 'they seem alive !'
'Don't they?' He closed the heavy door and stood there looking at her, and to avoid his eyes she added to her impressions of the room by studying the tall king-wood cabinets that held an assortment of books, topped by falcons in carved wood, a menacing look to the way they peered downward, their beaks and claws cruelly distinct.
Over by a window there was a drawing-stand such as artists or architects might use, and Carol recalled what Gena had said about the baróne, that he designed the engines for motor-boats and racing-cars. Yes, she thought, he would want an occupation, for there was something alert and active in his every glance and movement. It wouldn't suit such a man to live the idle life of a wealthy aristocrat, and when he saw her looking at the drawing-board he said, sardonically:
'Yes, I too like to work for my bed and board, madam. It doesn't entirely suit me to live on the looted treasures of this house, though I certainly admit to finding pleasure in their beauty.'
As he spoke that final word his eyes dwelt on Carol's hair, the coloured upper panels of the gothic windows playing over its fairness and creating a sort of nimbus.
She tensed and wondered what was going through his mind. Did the look of her make him remember with painful - no, agonizing vividness that terrible moment when the acid had struck his face, flung at him by a woman mad with love or hate?
Love could be terrible ... terrible as hate if a woman could be driven to such an act.
'Won't you take a seat, madam?' He gestured to a deep chair that seemed to be covered in a thick dull material like monk's cloth. As Carol sat down she wondered if this man had taken to a sort of monk's life since having his face and heart burned by acid.
He didn't sit down himself but went to lean against one of the purplish-brown book cabinets, a carved falcon peering down at his black head, and so placed that he was out of range of the sunlight through the peaked windows 'Have you thought, madam, that while your son is a child he will have the protection of his family's love? Have you realized that when he goes away to school there will be those who will regard him as unentitled to his father's name?'
Her hands clenched the arms of her chair, for his words seemed to shaft into her like so many painful arrows. 'Yes,' she said quietly, 'I've thought about it now I - now I know that Vincenzo had a wife before he - he met me. I know that some people can be -spiteful, and Teri is such a knowing child that he will be susceptible to the barbed remarks. One of the reasons I wanted to get him away from my aunts was their attitude that he—' Carol bit her lip. 'They are old-fashioned in their outlook on life, and they thought that Teri should not have been born.'
'And why should they take such an attitude v/hen you believed yourself to be the legal wife of my brother?'
Carol gazed across at him and saw from his frown that she was skating on thin and dangerous ice. 'He was dead, signore, and it's always hard for a child to be brought up by a single parent.'
'Indeed, and that brings me to the point of this discussion. A growing boy should have a father, and most certainly a name. I have decided that you will become my wife, madam.'
'What?' Carol stared at him as if he had suggested
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